Matters of Aesthetics
by Ars Arpadok
Summary: What does the nastiest bounty hunter in the galaxy do with his time between jobs anyway? Written because the world needs more Cad Bane


There's no plot. I was just watching _Mysterious Mr. Moto_ and suddenly this scenario appeared in my diseased brain. Bane fans should check out this series by the way. Peter Lorre rocks my world.

Matters of Aesthetics _or_ The Bounty Hunter Never Gets His

Cad Bane liked Thani. It was big enough and just lawless enough that the citizenry either really didn't care about the odd new comer or knew better than to ask too many questions. It was also possessed of enough people who valued civilization to have several very nice, very discreet cantinas. They liked to call them hostelries or inns which was fine with him as long as they served the quality of liquor he liked and left him be; which they did admirably.

The Dornean Brandy was excellent but the music was beginning to irk him. Like so many of these places it was attempting atmosphere by pretending to be a club from the Golden Age. The entertainment stayed true to form as well, complete with oddly costumed chanteuse and a band of motley, slightly off tune brass instruments. The singer actually wasn't bad but her loud makeup and, to Bane's mind, disturbingly intimates thrusting against her kitschy microphone stand was turning him right off. He picked up his glass and moved away from the stage, settling eventually into a small table in the back half of the bar. It had the advantage of a good view of the front entrance while being close enough to the back to duck out discreetly; but not so close as to look like he was expecting trouble. It was quieter back here but he'd have to walk to the bar to get a refill. The waitresses were loath to forsake the front of house patrons and their fat expense accounts for anti-social loners. Oh well, such was life.

He was actually feeling more accommodating to the galaxy as a whole than usual and would probably have tipped a pretty girl in a brief, tight outfit as well as those codgers. He'd likely with less groping too. It seemed he'd have to content himself with passive entertainment; propping his boots on the chair across from him he began to attempt to do just that. Unfortunately for him a small group of Black Sun operatives had chosen this "hostelry" as well. They grouped at a large booth in the corner nearest the exit. They were being as discreet as a bunch of gangsters with pretensions could be; but he could see the tattoo of the leader clear. Her low cut blouse left it and a great deal else open to a fair bit of subtle perusal. The mark made him think of the recently delivered Ziro and he grimaced into his glass.

The Hutt was well out of his hands now and the money had been very good; better since that idiot Alama had gone and got himself marooned or killed or some other damn thing and was in no position to access the remainder of his funds. The gang boss's infernal whining to the edge of the Outer Rim had been almost enough to make Bane pray for a Republic patrol: almost. He thought he might still have the some of the headache from the week after he dumped the over-sexed slab of flesh. It was a wonder the Republic guards hadn't just shot the thing and been done with it. He'd have done it in an instant if some one had offered him even one credit more than the price agreed for the job.

His good mood fading fast with the memories of his last job. Bane decided he needed something stronger than the brandy to re-sand his edge off. He rose and sauntered toward the smaller of the two bars in the joint; nearer this section and currently empty. He slid onto a stool in the exact center of it to think about what he wanted. The bartender looked both bored and slightly bizarre with her too structured hair and alarmingly bright lips. Coupled with her pale, powdered skin she seemed almost like a simplified version of one of those Naboo royal women. That made him remember the lovely, feisty little senator from that planet and he half smiled. She hadn't needed any makeup.

The bar girl mistook his look as directed at her and smiled back slightly. She stepped toward him and spoke.

--What can I get you friend?

Her voice was nice; soft and a little raspy, probably from being in the smoky environs of the place all night. He decided to play along.

--What's good honey?

--Depends on what you like.

Oh he was warming up to this now. She was leaning forward some, pulling the shiny, black material of her blouse tight against her breasts and whatever she was wearing under it that pushed said breasts up and together. Whatever it was it seemed to be boned, tight and he was willing to bet it laced up. He liked things that laced up.

--I was looking for something tasty with a kick.

He was actually smiling at her, eyes narrow and upturned. He hoped she liked blue. She dropped her chin and looked at him through her eye lashes just a little. Her voice was a little breathier when she responded

--_Nightflower_ then.

He took the opportunity to examine the rear view as she turned to mix what he presumed was his drink. He might not enjoy the makeup or the clothes but the she had an ass on her like a ripe Kavasa. He licked his lips. He could see she was petite too. Her height came from the towering shoes she was wearing. He preferred his females small and compact, but seeing what those shoes did with the rest of her, elongating her legs and drawing attention to their shape, arching the back to thrusting the chest and hips out, he thought he might just have her leave them on.

Oh yes, that would be very nice. He'd get her hair out of that stupid up sweep, even if he had to dunk her damn head in a basin to get all the lacquer out. Then he'd peel her out of that dress; unlace whatever it was she had on under it real slow until it was just her, all cream colored skin and chocolate hair, and those shoes of course. He'd even leave her makeup on; let that lipstick smear across her face like a berry sauce.

He was so lost in these pleasant thoughts that he almost jumped when she slapped his drink in front of him: almost.

--One _Nightflower_ Bane. Enjoy.

--Why thank you little− Wait a minute, I didn't give you my name.

--No, our mutual friend did. He also asked me to give you this when I saw you.

She palmed him a very slim datapad, the kind that cost the same as some speeders. He turned himself carefully in the seat, keeping an eye on both her and the rest of the place while he made sure _they_ couldn't get a good look at what he was doing.

Of all the bad kriffing luck! It was a message from Dooku. The man had another job for him. He growled.

--How'd you know where I was girl?

--You got some bad habits Bane. You like some parts of the good life too much; especially right after a job.

She stepped back quickly when he half lunged at her, teeth bared.

--Easy there _big boy_. That's the problem with these upscale joints. You can't just throttle me no questions asked. You actually got to be _discreet._

He was beaten. He couldn't turn that piece of aristocratic chizk down, not when the man could find him this easy. He'd been on the lam less then three standard weeks but it looked like that was going to be as much as he got. Well, maybe it wouldn't be a total loss. He leered, as charmingly as he could given the circumstances, at the girl behind the bar.

--I don't need to be heading out right this second, how's about you and me−

--Hold it right there darling. I signed on to find your blue ass, not bang it.

Stang! Damn Dooku to all of the Corellian hells.

Bane shoved away from the bar and stalked out. Looked like it was back to him, his hand and that HoloNet caster on the morning program for the foreseeable future.

Oh, poor Bane. Cockblocked by Saruman.

Pardon all of the bad food puns but Bane's totally Hungarian in my head now and ALL the Magyar men I've met, including the ones I'm related too, describe women as food.


End file.
